Knight Bus Adventures
by luvscharlie
Summary: The things that happen on the Knight Bus are what some might consider shocking. Ernie Prang has seen it all. Rabastan/Rita/Rodolphus, Stan, Ernie


_Knight Bus Adventures as told by Ernie Prang, Driver Extraordinaire_ by Luvscharlie

I think my wife often wondered why I didn't feel the need to go to those girly wizard pubs like most men. You know, the ones where the girls dance around in barely-there (and sometimes not there at all) clothes. With a job like mine, those clubs were simply unnecessary.

The things that happened on the Knight Bus would shock most people. I mean, I've been driving it for as long as I can remember, and there are days when even I shake my head and simply look ahead because I don't want to see what's going on behind me. Just because we have beds on the bus does not mean I want you to use them for _that_.

Which, by the way, someone should tell that Weasley boy. No, I don't rightly know which one he is. The one that's covered in freckles—that really didn't narrow it down much, eh? Hmm. Let me ponder on it a second. Oh, yes, he's the one that works with dragons, I suspect—you know, burn marks and all. And he's fair to covered with them moving picture shows all over his skin. He's got painted dragons and snitches and things in places that I only wish I'd never seen—but I've seen them—oh, have I seen them… more than once. That one comes into town and well, you just wouldn't believe the things that happen on my bus. Him and his mates, they rented out the whole bottom part of the bus just a few months back for one of them _orgies_. Is that the word? That's what Stan called it when he was standing here beside me watching, his trousers open and his cock in his hand. I really wish he would find himself another place to do that. But, anyway…

"Ern," he says—that's what Stan calls me, Ern. "Ern," he says, "have you ever seen an orgy?"

Now, at first, I thought he said a dorgy—I figured it was some new type of pixie. Always inbreeding, pixies, you know. So, it's not all that uncommon for there to be a new species of 'em flittering about. Apparently, he was not referring to pixies. No, not at all.

Which brings us to Stan. Now, don't get me wrong. I love Stan like a son. Really, I do. I wish he wouldn't put his cock so close to me no more when he's watching and doing _that_, but he's a good boy at heart. Stan's a few splinters short of a wand. I mean, the boy has issues. He's always walking that line between what's kosher and what will land him in Azkaban faster than you can say He Who Must Not Be Named, which on second thought is a bit of a mouthful, so perhaps I should say—but I digress. That's another thing about Stan: stay around him for any length of time and you start to ramble without even realising your rambling. He's infectious that way.

Stan's definitely a watcher. He's got him one of them boy-yur-istic problems. Wait, I don't think that's right. Does that mean he likes boys? I mean, don't be getting me wrong, I think he does—like boys that is; girls too—Stan's not picky—but that wasn't what it was I was a talkin' about. No. Stan's got one of them—I just can't seem to find the right word. Maybe it's a watcher-istic problem. Anyway, I think you get the gist.

For instance…

I remember the day that Rita Skeeter boarded the Knight Bus with those two Lestrange brothers—they thought ol' Ern didn't know who they were—but I did. I didn't just fall off the Pumpkin Cart, no sir. It's hard to get anything past a bloke sharp as me. I knew their mum from way back—a real nutter that one—and while her boys were lookers, they were as mean as they come.

Stan's another story. He seemed not to know them. Can't really imagine it, seeing as how we looked at their wanted posters all over our route for weeks on end, but maybe he just didn't care who they were, since it was really obvious what was about to take place. That oldest Lestrange bloke put a lot of coins in Stan's hand and told him to make sure the bus didn't stop. Just keep driving, he says. I wanted to point out that Stan wasn't the one driving, and he might have slipped me some of them coins, but I didn't interfere. Nobody can ever accuse old Ernie of sticking his nose where it don't belong.

Rita pulled out a funny looking, green quill—one of them little dandies that writes all by itself. Where were those when I was a lad? But again, I'm getting off topic. Anyway, she pulled out a quill and sat down on one of the beds…

"You said you had a scoop for me, Mr. Lestrange?" Rita said, crossing her legs and pushing her glasses up her nose.

Rodolphus ran his hands through his dark hair and sat down across from her on one of the other small beds that lined the bus. His brother, Rabastan, seemed a bit more forward. He sat himself right down beside her and put his hand on her knee.

"The question, Ms. Skeeter, is what do you have for us?" Rabastan asked.

"I should think that would depend on what you are about to tell me, gentlemen." Rita nodded her head and the quill that had previously been flying back and forth across a piece of floating parchment whizzed across the bus and poked Rabastan Lestrange in the hand hard enough to draw blood. He quickly removed it from her knee and I did my best not to snigger, so that it might be overheard.

Stan propped himself against the back of my driver's seat, simply watching the trio.

"Must we do this every time?" Rabastan asked. "You know the price."

Rodolphus, clearly the more patient of the two, put up a hand to quiet his brother. "My dear, Ms. Skeeter, you know our information is always good. But, since you insist on a bit more… the Ministry has been infiltrated. I _do_ wonder what the _Prophet_ might be willing to offer to the reporter who brought them that story. Particularly if said reporter were to—oh, I don't know, provide them with the name of one of the wizards who just happened to be a spy for the Dark Lord."

"Why would you tell me information like that? He's one of your own." Rita looked shocked, and I heard Stan make a noise from behind me. I just kept driving.

"The Dark Lord is done with this particular individual. He is of no further use to us. Does that interest you, my dear?" I had to admit that Rodolphus was slippery as an eel. Of course, that Skeeter bird was too. Like two peas in a pod, those two. Put that bird alone in a room with He Who Must Not Be Named, and I'd be willing to bet he'd be eating out of her hand—or something—in no time. Persuasive, that one.

"How do I know it is good information?"

"Dear, dear," said Rabastan, "when did you become such a doubting Thomas?" I watched as he reached up and plucked a comb from her hair, causing her blond curls to tumble free. The quill made a dive for him once more, but this time he was ready, snatching it from the air and breaking it into several pieces, then tossing the pieces onto the floor. I hoped he knew there was an extra charge for littering on my bus.

"Have we ever given you bad information before?" asked Rabastan, leaning forward and taking the lapels of her blouse in hand then jerking. I could hear the material as it ripped and the buttons as they scattered across the floor (that'd be four extra Galleons for picking those up). Once again, I turned to the road, but I slowed down a bit. Things were about to get interesting and I didn't want to miss it. Not that I would watch or anything, but I had to be careful not to knock Stan about too much. I mean, he'd be watching and all and—I'll just get on with my story.

This was clearly a routine for them. I never heard her say yes, but I certainly never heard her say no either. There was gasping and moaning, the sound of lips on lips and clothes being shed.

"This information is quite valuable. You'll have to do more for us than last time, you understand?" said one of the brothers, his voice breathless. I couldn't tell which of the Lestranges were speaking, since at that very moment some old Muggle woman decided she wanted to cross the street and--_thump_ They'll never prove it was me. I mean, I didn't—Anyway… Stan told me that the Skeeter woman nodded her head like she understood, and that she seemed real eager about it—not that you can generally believe Stan about things like that. Stan was surely eager; he had his belt undone and his trousers open, just waiting for the fun to begin. His hand was in his shorts and he was stroking himself. I hoped he knew if a mess was made, he was cleaning it up. I'd pick up buttons and broken quills—but cleaning up _that_ was where I drew the line.

I tried to keep my eyes on the street, driving the bus with the utmost of caution. Of course, I did have to be more careful after that last little thumping incident—for which, let us be clear, I was in no way responsible. The next time I turned around to sneak a peek the bird was on her hands and knees up on one of the beds, devoid of all garments except a pair of high heels, with a cock in her mouth and one in her—oh yes ma'am, she did. Rabastan Lestrange was pushing into her bum as his brother was spilling down her throat. And Stan—well Stan's hand was moving so fast, fisting his cock that it was little more than a blur.

There was groaning and sighing and I just couldn't turn away—another thump—damn people really needed to watch where they were walking…

~*~

The next morning's paper reported that the Ministry was rumoured to have been infiltrated, and there was a picture of a man struggling as he was being hauled away to Azkaban.

There was also some tiny, little article (on the front page—slow news day, no doubt) about two suspicious Muggle deaths and purple paint found at both scenes and—rubbish—this paper printed nothing but rubbish.

I had better things to do with my time then read the likes of this. I put my bus into gear and started out to begin another adventurous day.

After all, you never knew what you might see in a day on my bus.

Fin.

_A/N: Originally written for April 2009 Daily_Deviant Community on Insane Journal, where the prompt was sex shows._


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